


along the wire

by brahe



Category: Project Blue Book (TV)
Genre: (tm), Aliens, Allen Uses Petnames, Case Fic, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Michael in Crisis, Phone Calls & Telephones, close encounter of the third kind, i don't know why i love putting michael in crisis so much but here we are, im making it an official tag, it's mostly soft, kind of, lowkey, space nerd allen, that might be a first for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 20:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21151487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brahe/pseuds/brahe
Summary: “Actually, I – I saw something, today. Tonight. Out in the woods,” he admits, trying not to think about how unsettling those three glowing white circles that had blinked back at him were.“Everything in town was a dead end, so I figured I'd take a page out of your book and investigate for myself.” The next breath Michael takes is shakier than the last, and hehatesit, hates how he feels, frightened of the unknown, and so alone. “I don't know what the hell it was but – but I –” he cuts off, those three bright eyes burned into his retina, haunting, chilling. He's surprised at how viscerally he wishes Allen were here.“Okay,” Allen says, so soft and reassuring. “It's okay. I believe you."Or,Michael runs a solo case in a small town in Pennsylvania, and runs into more than he bargained for.





	along the wire

**Author's Note:**

> whaddup im Back
> 
> here's a wip i started in january that i finally got around to finishing. it ended up taking longer than i thought to get this out and i rewrote the second half three times before getting to where i liked it
> 
> this was going to be more like an x files episode but i cursed myself by doing a phone-based fic in the 50s _and_ by listening to journey's faithfully the entire time i worked on this, so instead it's mostly soft with a serving of aliens
> 
> also a sidenote: hotel door peepholes were invented in 1932 but i don't know when they were mass-adopted so i didn't include them  
(me back on my over-researching bs)
> 
> title from faithfully as well

Allen’s just finished tying his tie and is adjusting it in the mirror when the room's phone rings. He turns around to pick it up, holding it to his ear with his shoulder as he goes back to his tie.

“This is Hynek.”

“Hey, doc, it’s me.” It’s Michael, voice still morning-quiet.

Allen smiles without thinking about it, and shakes his head when he catches himself in the mirror. 

"Ah, good morning, captain," he says, and it sounds ridiculously warm to his own ears. Michael's gentle laugh comes through the line.

"I keep telling you, you don't have to call me captain."

Allen adjusts the phone to his other shoulder. "And I've told_ you _you don't have to call me doctor," Allen reminds him.

"It's...it's _doc_, that's different. It's like – it's like a nickname."

“Alright, whatever you say,” Allen agrees. “How are you?”

Michael hums. “I’ve actually got some news,” he says, and he doesn’t sound worried, but the words still send a strike of nerves down Allen’s spine. He adjusts again, holding the phone with his hand this time.

“What’s the matter? Everything alright?”

There’s Michael’s laugh again, a quiet chuckling. “Nothing’s wrong, don’t worry. Blue Book’s just got a new assignment, that’s all.”

“Oh? What about?”

“Supposed crash in the woods outside of Westover, Pennsylvania,” Michael tells him. “Report came in a few minutes ago, and – they want me to leave in the next twenty minutes.”

Allen realizes, then, that Michael’s going without him, and – it feels kind of weird, to be honest. They’ve been on every case together since Allen was recruited. 

“I expect regular updates, Michael,” Allen says. “Just because I’m not there doesn’t mean I can’t help.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Michael says, and Allen can hear the smile in his voice, imagines that it’s the wide, bright one Michael gets whenever Allen does something unexpected, a kind of surprised happiness Allen finds remarkably addicting.

“And stay out of trouble,” he adds, and this time when Michael laughs it’s a loud, contagious sound.

“Getting into trouble is_your_ job,” Michael tells him. “I’ll try not to have too much fun without you.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Allen says. There's a pause, and it feels thick in a way Allen can't describe, like the edge of a storm, maybe. 

“Allen, I –” Michael starts, but cuts himself off, and there's noises in the background, now, probably people. “I gotta go. I’ll – I’ll keep you posted.”

“See that you do,” Allen says, and there’s something that settles into his gut that feels like not-quite dread, not-quite worry, but..._something._ His voice is softer when he adds, “Stay safe, Michael.”

“I’ll call you tonight,” Michael promises. “I –” he starts, then pauses, the silence lingering heavy through the receiver. “Talk to you later.”

“Good luck,” Allen says, and for a long time after they hang up he can’t help but think about what Michael had intended to say. 

  
  


\---

  
  


It’s late when Michael calls again – the convention activities had ended a few hours ago, and Allen’s spent the time since in his hotel room, learning what he can about Westover from the atlas he asked the front desk for. There’s one of Pennsylvania’s game lands not too far out of town, and he suspects that’s the supposed crash site.

The phone rings a bit after midnight, and Allen picks it up, maybe a little too quickly.

“Hynek,” he greets, though he knows who’s on the other end.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Michael asks, and the tenseness Allen’s felt since Michael called early that morning loosens just a little.

“I’ve been awake,” Allen says. “How’s Westover?”

“Small,” Michael tells him. “There’s less than five hundred people here. I talked to four people about the crash; the woman who called, Elizabeth Walker, and three others who saw a, quote, ‘streak of white fire across the sky.’ They all say it ended up in the game land outside of town.”

“Sounds interesting,” Allen says. “Did you rule anything out yet?”

There’s rustling through the receiver that sounds like Michael shaking his head. “Not much, no. I haven’t really gotten much to go on. No one in town went into the woods to look for it, and no one’s got pictures.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Guess I’m going out to the woods tomorrow, see if I can find anything. I’m thinking it was probably a meteor.”

Allen hums. “Meteor would be unlikely. There hasn’t been a shower in a few weeks, and there’s not supposed to be one for another month or so.”

“Could of also been a plane crash,” Michael tells him. “There’s a local airport not too far away.”

Allen hums again, already thinking of potential explanations. It’s certainly one of the less dramatic stories they’ve heard, and he doubts the answer will be difficult to find.

It isn’t until he hears Michael calling him that he realizes he’s become lost in thought.

“Allen? You still there?” 

“Oh, yes, sorry. Just thinking of what it could be. But I’m sure you’ll figure that out.”

“Well, I’ll do my best,” Michael agrees. “How’s the convention going? Wasn’t your presentation today?”

“Yes, and I think it went rather well, if I do say so myself. I ended up talking with Cecelia Payne, afterwards, since she had some questions, and she’s just absolutely brilliant, doing some really breakthrough work on star composition, completely revolutionizing the way we think about stars, and – sorry, this is probably not as exciting to you.”

“I’ll admit I don’t understand very much about astrophysics,” Michael says, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t think it’s interesting.” There's a pause, and Allen's still trying to come up with something to say to that, when Michael continues. “If you…if you want to keep explaining, I'm happy to listen.”

And so Allen tells him about star matter and the planets, about origin theories for the moon and veers into his own, personal research, and it's _nice_, having someone listen and really, actually _want_ to listen, and, he thinks, it's nice that it's Michael, genuinely interested in learning more about what Allen's dedicated his life to.

The next time he looks at the clock, he realizes he's been talking for nearly an hour. “You didn't have to listen to all that,” he says. “I'm sorry to keep you up so late.”

“Allen, I…it's what you're interested in, right? It's what you _do_. The least I can do is listen to you be excited about it.”

“I don't know very many people that think like you do, but – but thank you. It's nice to have someone to talk to.”

He yawns, then, sudden and unexpected, and he hears Michael's soft laughter.

“Get some sleep, Allen,” Michael says, soft and a little rough with the hour. Allen finds himself wondering if he's at the desk or on his bed, if he's already in his pajamas.

“I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

  
  


\---

  
  


Michael opens his hotel door, sliding the locks in place before he moves to the bed, depositing his bag at the foot of it. He stares at the sheets, off-white and starchy, far too many things swirling around in his head, and then he changes directions, settling into the chair at the desk. He reaches for the phone cord, fiddling with the coils, and – 

He’s not sure how long he spends like that – thinking about what he saw in the woods and about how he keeps forgetting he’s here by himself and about these phone calls they’ve had only twice but how they feel so different from every other conversation they’ve ever had – debating whether or not to call Allen tonight, about whether or not to tell him about what he’s seen – but then the phone rings, and the answer to his greeting is Allen, warm and sleepy.

“Hello, Michael,” he says, “I hope I’m not calling too late.”

“Nah,” Michael tells him, for a moment thinking about nothing but the way his name sounds in Allen’s voice. “I’m still up.”

“This late? Did something happen, are you alright?”

Michael leans back in the chair, kicking his feet up onto the desk. “I’m okay,” he says. He can already feel the tension in his body begin to seep away, soothed by Allen’s voice. “Why are _you_ still awake?” he asks, with a glance at the clock. _3:12 am._

“It was a long day today,” Allen tells him. “We didn’t wrap up until almost two.”

“I thought you said you didn’t go to parties,” Michael says, and Allen huffs a laugh.

“It’s different,” he says, and Michael imagines the hand-waving he’s no doubt doing. “Did the case keep you out late?”

“It’s just been a long day here, too.”

“I hope it’s not too hard without me,” Allen says, and Michael can hear the smile in his voice, wishes he could see it instead.

“I’m managing,” Michael agrees, unable to help the smile on his own face. “How’s day four of the convention?”

“Today was mostly post-doctoral presentations,” Allen tells him. “There’s so many bright new people in the field, all with such great research interests. It’s rather exciting, to be honest. It’s also nice to know it’s all still going strong. There was one presentation I found particularly intriguing, on Zwicky’s dark matter, a fascinating discussion of the current research, which really _is_ current, it’s been less than fifteen years since he first published it, and…”

Michael settles in, the last of the night’s tension fading away as Allen talks. Michael does his best to keep up, but both Allen and his field of study are far beyond Michael’s skillset – it’s what makes them such a good team, he knows, and he’s come to enjoy listening to Allen tell him about galaxies and the stars during their cases; though it’s less about the content and more the way Allen gets so excited, but that’s not something Michael would easily admit.

He imagines Allen, sitting against the pillows, the hand not holding the phone waving about as he explains, imagines the smile that’s no doubt on his face.

“...I’ve gone and rambled on, again, haven’t I,” Allen says, a good twenty minutes into his rather one-sided discussion. “You’re awfully quiet tonight, are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” Michael says, warm affection practically dripping from his tone, and it’s true, really – listening to Allen is always calming. “Nothing that interesting to report on this end.”

Allen hums, disbelieving.

“Focus on the convention, doc,” Michael tells him. “Don’t worry about me.”

He hears Allen take a breath, distant ruffling sounds as he shifts. “To be honest,” he says, “I think I’d rather be there with you.”

It's not what Michael expected to hear, and he waits for Allen to add something like _working on the case_, anything that would make it less personal, less heady – but Allen says nothing else, and Michael sucks in a breath, unsure what to think, even more unsure what to say.

He laughs, something awkward and choppy, and maybe it's an attempt to shift the mood, but more likely it's just him, pretending he doesn't think the things he does, feel the way he does.

“Miss you too, professor,” he says, false-light, and it's true, at the core of it, but he doesn't have the gall to say it outright, not yet, can't say it without the humor, the joking lilt. 

There's more rustling from Allen's end, and something that sounds partially like a sigh. “Are you sure you're alright, Michael?” he asks for the third time, and Michael didn't really realize how well Allen could see straight through him until now. He thinks about Allen, sitting on a hotel bed, but one that's so far away, holding the phone against his ear, and his hair is probably shower-fresh and curling in the way Michael secretly adores, and he's probably got that soft, concerned look on his face that he's given Michael a few times – the one Michael never knows how to respond to, can't look at for too long without wanting to do something ridiculous, like kiss him.

Michael takes a deep breath, fills his lungs completely before letting it out, slow, and he's not certain what he's going to say until he starts speaking. 

“Actually, I – I saw something, today. Tonight. Out in the woods,” he admits, trying not to think about how unsettling those three glowing white circles that had blinked back at him were. “Everything in town was a dead end, so I figured I'd take a page out of your book and investigate for myself.” The next breath Michael takes is shakier than the last, and he hates it, _hates_ how he feels, frightened of the unknown, and so alone. “I don't know what the hell it was but – but I –” he cuts off, those three bright eyes burned into his retina, haunting, chilling. He's surprised at how viscerally he wishes Allen were here. 

It's Allen's voice that drags him out of his thoughts again. “Okay,” he says, so soft and reassuring. “Okay, it's okay, dearest, I believe you. Did you get a good look at whatever it was? Are you hurt, are you alright?”

“I'm alright, promise,” he says, and he hadn't realized how badly he wanted to hear Allen say he believed him. “I'm back at the hotel. I came straight back. I…”

“It’s alright,” Allen's saying again. “We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“It's not – it's just – I don't know how you'd explain this one, Allen. I don't think you could. Three perfect circles, close together and all in a line, glowing bright white, and they – they _blinked_ at me, Allen, I swear it, I was staring straight at them and they blinked.”

Michael goes quiet for a moment, focusing, breathes in and out, timing them with the ones he can hear through the phone.

“I found the crash site first,” Michael explains, standing up to pace in the space the telephone cord will allow. “Or…whatever it was. It was pretty clear, downed some trees and cut a wide line in the ground. It went a lot further than I thought, and I followed it for quite a while, and before I knew it, the sun was setting and I was pretty deep into the woods.

“I must have been getting close to the end of it just after it went dark. It…I don't know, it _felt_ different, I – I don't really know how to explain it, doc, it was _unsettling,_ like something was there that shouldn't be, like something was wrong."

It's silent for a moment, after that. Michael's not sure how to continue, mentally back in the woods again, dusky twilight and just this side of not yet lost and suddenly realizing he's not alone, _we're not alone_. 

"Was it your feeling?" Allen asks, and Michael jerks, a physical representation of coming out of his memories.

"What?" he asks, although he's fairly certain he heard correctly.

"The feeling of something wrong, was it yours?" 

“What else could it be?” But he’s hesitant, and he’s thinking, maybe – and he doesn't know if this is what Allen means, if he'll say it out loud –

"Or was it the creature's?" Allen says, carefully quiet, and Michael falls hard back onto the bed, phone clutched to his ear.

"Jesus, Allen," he sighs, running his free hand down his face. "I don't know, I – I don't even know if it was a…a creature," he says, the word _alien_ ringing around in his head. "I don't even think I'm ready to admit that it was anything at all, Christ, I've never seen anything like that. Never felt anything like that."

Allen just hums, but Michael's working himself up, now. "What if it is was? What if there's really a – God, I can barely get myself to say it – an _alien_ in the forest in Pennsylvania? I know what I saw but I know – it's crazy! It's absolutely insane, there is no way – _no way_ – what if it _wasn't_ my feeling? Oh, God, I was feeling alien feelings. An alien projected its feelings onto me. Oh, Jesus, what if – "

Michael finally hears Allen calling his name through the phone, steady and loud, and he stops sharp, breathing heavy.

"Michael," Allen says. "Relax, please, it's alright."

"How do you know?" Michael asks, voice tight. "Allen, it was – I've never – I’ve never been so terrified in my entire life." It’s heavy to admit it, and he wishes so much that Allen was here, wants so much that it squeezes his heart, sets weights on his chest.

"Dearest, it's alright, you're safe now,” Allen tells him, steady and calm. “You're in the hotel, it's okay."

Michael takes a deep breath and then another, leveling his heartbeat, focusing on matching Allen's breaths, on his voice, on forgetting those alien eyes, staring, staring, staring.

“I wish you were here,” Michael says, and that’s heavy to admit, too, at the same time that it isn’t. “I don’t know what to do, and I – I wish you were here.” 

Allen makes a sound, more wistful than a sigh, and Michael _wants_.

“Me too,” Allen says, and his voice sounds scratchy, brimming with emotion. “I don’t like being so far away from you.”

Michael’s breathing is still shaking, but he’s calming down. “Will you be alright tonight?” Allen asks, and Micheal hums.

“I have to be, don’t I?” he says, and shakes his head. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

"I'm coming tomorrow,” Allen tells him. “First thing in the morning I’m coming, so don’t do anything rash.”

"What about your convention?" Michael asks. For all he hopes, wishes Allen were here, he loathes dragging him away from his convention, from his peers and his friends and his field he spends so little time in anymore. 

"My presentation is over, and I've seen the ones I've wanted to see. Trust me, it'll be fine. I'll be there tomorrow and we'll figure out what's going on."

Michael hesitates, lets the silence linger on the line, but he caves, like he knew he would.

"Okay," he agrees, soft. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"See you tomorrow, Michael. Call if you need anything at all."

The line goes dead and Michael lets the receiver fall onto the mattress, too worn to reach over and put it back. He's already half asleep, and it isn't until he rolls over to situate himself under the blanket that he realizes Allen called him _dearest_.

  
  


\---

  
  


Some time later, with the barest hint of the sun on the horizon, Michael wakes up, bolt upright in a cold sweat. His hair sticks to the tacky skin of his forehead, and the sheets are slightly damp where he was laying. He looks around the room as his eyes try to focus, and he’s reaching for the telephone receiver before he even realizes he’s doing it.

The receptionist that answers sounds friendly, albeit tired. “Fairmont Hotel,” she says, and Michael takes a moment to get himself together.

“Call for Dr. Hynek, room 203,” he tells her, and she patches him through without a word.

“Hynek,” comes Allen’s voice, and Michael nearly sags in relief at the sound of it.

“Allen,” Michael breathes, and Allen makes a surprised noise.

“Michael?” he asks. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing – nothing new,” Michael says, bites back the _nothing’s wrong_ default. “Just a nightmare,” he tells him, and now that he’s calmed down, now that he’s said it out loud, it sounds ridiculous. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, I…”

“You didn’t wake me,” Allen says. “I’ve been up for half an hour or so, I was about to head down to check out.”

“You…oh, right.” Michael feels some kind of way at being the reason Allen’s up so early, the reason Allen’s about to drive five hours to him, the reason Allen hasn’t left yet. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Michael,” Allen says, gentle, caring. “What do you need?”

“Nothing, I just – just wanted to hear your voice,” he admits, and for a moment he fears he’s said too much yet again, too shaken up to really control what words come out of his mouth but not too unaware that he doesn’t nearly regret them immediately.

“Well you’ll be able to see me, too, in not too long,” Allen tells him, sitting on the foot of his bed. He’d just finished packing up when the phone rang, and now he’s glad he hadn’t left during the night like he’d originally thought to do. Michael sounds more out of character than Allen’s ever heard him, words halfway slurred and voice rough. “Try to go back to sleep, dear, you sound exhausted.”

“I – yeah, good idea.”

“Don’t do anything rash before I get there.” He stands again, slinging his bag over his shoulder and picking his briefcase up from the desk. 

“Yes, sir,” Michael says with a hint of a laugh. “Drive safe.”

“I will,” he says. “Michael, I…” he starts, and he’s reminded of their conversation when Michael first told him about the case, of wondering what it was Michael had wanted to say. He wonders now if it was the same words sitting heavy on his own tongue, the same confession lodged in his throat.

“Allen?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll be there soon,” he says, instead, and _coward_, his mind says. “Wait for me.”

Michael takes a breath that rattles even through the phone. “I will.”

  
  


\---

  
  


Michael lays on the bed for some time after that – an hour, he’d guess, but he doesn’t really know – staring at the ceiling. Everything’s jumbled so much it’s hard to make sense of anything he’s feeling. Allen’s voice in his head calling him _dearest_ is just as loud as the crushing loneliness from the forest and it feels like he’s drowning in all his thoughts.

He doesn’t realize he’d almost fallen back to sleep until there’s a knocking on his door, four quick repetitions, almost frantic. Bleary, he sits up and peers at the clock; there’s no way it could be Allen yet. He stands and checks for his gun – tucked into the dresser drawer – and the knocking comes again, harder this time.

He foregoes the weapon on the off chance it’s hotel staff, but tries to ready himself for a fight, shaking his limbs loose and clearing his mind with old military tricks. When he opens the door, however, he’s greeted with a face he’s seen before: Ms. Elizabeth Walker, the woman who called in the UFO to Blue Book.

“Captain Quinn,” she says, once he’s realized it’s her and pulled the door open all the way. She steps into his room with a quick glance over her shoulder, and he closes the door quickly. She turns to him, holding her hand over her wrist – a nervous gesture. “There’s something I need to show you.”

  
  


\---

  
  


Allen makes good time to Pennsylvania, arriving in Westover just after lunchtime. Michael’s hotel is easy to find, seeing as it’s the only one in town. He parks outside the lobby and rushes inside, holding his hat on his head as the wind whips through the parking lot.

The receptionist is a young girl, likely just out of school, and she looks up at Allen with a friendly smile.

“Welcome to Westover,” she says, sunnily, “how can I help you?”

Allen readjusts his coat from the wind and steps up to the counter, his plan of just going straight to Michael’s room shot now. “Ah, yes, I’m here to meet a – colleague,” he tells her. _Friend _sounded too clandestine; not that colleague sounds any better. “Captain Michael Quinn, Air Force. He’s in room 301.” 

The girl looks down, rustling a few papers. “He didn’t leave a message, does he know you’re coming?”

“Yes, we spoke this morning,” Allen says, and he’s getting antsy, now. He has a sinking suspicion Michael won’t be in his room when Allen gets there. The girl purses her lips.

“Well, I suppose you can go knock for him. The stairs are on the left down the hall.”

Allen leaves with a hasty thanks and takes the steps as fast as he can. When he gets to Michael’s door, he can hear voices talking quietly, but he can’t tell where they’re coming from. He knocks, two quick, solid raps as has become their unofficial signal, and steps back. The voices stop, which is both good and bad, Allen thinks – it means Michael’s most likely in the room, but he’s in there with someone else, and Allen can only imagine who.

All thoughts except relief leave him when Michael opens the door, barely a crack at first before it’s wide open and Michael’s standing there in an old Air Force t-shirt and pajama pants. His skin looks paler than usual, the bags under his eyes more obvious, his hair a disheveled mess, and Allen thinks he’s never looked more beautiful.

“You’re here,” Michael says, an exhale, a release of tension so obvious to Allen, and in the next moment Allen’s stepped through the door. Michael pushes it closed behind Allen and pulls them through the bathroom doorway, nearly closing that door behind them. Allen squeezes at Michael's arms, presses his hands along his sides, grabs onto his chin, tilting it this way and that, and it all short circuits Michael's brain a bit.

He reaches up, takes Allen's hand from his jaw and holds it in his own, fingers wrapped around each other. “I’m alright,” he tells Allen, who looks up from where he’d been checking Michael over for injuries with a raised eyebrow and disbelieving look.

“Excuse me for not simply taking your word for it,” Allen says, “I was _worried_.” He starts rubbing his thumb against the back of Michael’s hand, and Michael sighs.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Allen tells him, then, stern, and Michael blinks at him. “There’s nothing to apologize for. I was worried because you’re my partner and I – and I care about you.”

Michael smiles. “Wow, I care about you, too, partner,” he says, laughter in his tone, and Allen rolls his eyes, squeezes the hand that’s still wrapped around Michael’s arm. Michael looks at him, sobering. He’s wearing a sweater that’s pushed up a little in the sleeves, slacks that look well worn, and his hair is product-free, curling over his face and the tops of his ears. He looks _soft_, looks so inviting Michael wants to bury his face in his chest and be held until this all blows over, which, _wow, _that’s new even with his raging crush.

“Yeah,” he says, quiet, earnest. Allen’s thumb still rubbing against Michael’s hand, and – and he _gets_ it, sees it so clearly in Allen’s face, now, sees it in their phone calls and Allen’s drive and – and _dearest_, and it finally gives him the courage he’s been lacking. “Yeah, I know,” he says. He reaches for Allen, rests his palm against his cheek, his beard scratchy-soft, and pushes a curl behind his ear. “I’m glad you’re here,” Michael tells him. Everything about Allen has put him at ease – the sound of his breathing and the smell of his cologne, and if it weren't for his guest, he knows with certainty he rarely has that he would’ve kissed him.

“Captain Quinn?” Elizabeth calls, suddenly, making Allen jump. “Is everything alright?”

Michael lets his hand fall from Allen’s face to his chest, squeezing their joined hands one more time before letting go. Allen’s eyebrows furrow before remembers the voices he heard in the hallway.

“Everything’s fine,” Michael calls back, half turned to the bathroom door. “Just my colleague I told you about. We’ll be there in a moment.” He returns his attention to Allen.

“Case,” he tells him quietly. Allen nods, but he’s loath to let Michael go now that he’s got him. He brings Michael to him in a half sort of hug, pressing a kiss to the side of his forehead, before stepping back.

“Come on,” he says, matching Michael’s tone, and makes to step around him, except Michael catches him with a hand to his chest.

“If you’re going to kiss me, kiss me,” Michael says, hardly words at all for how quietly he’s speaking, and then it doesn’t matter because he’s pulling Allen towards him, a hard, fast press of lips that still leaves them both breathless. He wishes he had the time to truly appreciate the dazed look on Allen’s face when he lets him go and steps back, but Elizabeth is in the other room and the incident in the woods is still heavy in Michael’s mind.

“Now we can go,” he says, and leads them out into the main room, Allen’s hand on his back until they come into Elizabeth’s view.

**Author's Note:**

> if i'm inspired i might write another chapter and do more of the case with background getting together but we'll see


End file.
